He stepped inside onto the bare floor. The room, like downstairs, was clean, but it had the stale and bitter odour of men. Each bed’s blankets lay neatly folded at the foot, a wash bag placed on top. A photograph of a naked girl, cut from a magazine, was taped to the wall above one. Another crate served as a table between the cots. Two duffel bags sat propped in the corner.
The place felt and smelled like a barracks. Ryan wished it were untrue, but it made him homesick for his quarters in Gormanston Camp.
He left the room, crossed the small landing to the first closed door. It opened outward to reveal an airing cupboard containing towels and bedclothing.
And four automatic rifles, a Smith & Wesson revolver, and two Browning HP semi-automatic pistols, both of which had been adapted for the suppressors that lay beside them, nestled in an oily cloth.
“Jesus,” Ryan said.
He closed the cupboard and turned to the last door. It creaked as it opened. This bedroom was much like the other, except for the man lying on the farthest cot, sweat forming a glossy sheen on his skin, his right arm tied in a splint, his fingers stained deep red with blood.
The man stared at Ryan, his eyes struggling for focus, his mouth open.
Ryan saw the first aid kit on the crate by the bed, the small brown bottle, the syringe.
Morphine.
“Hallo,” the man said, the consonant L soft like cotton.
He lay naked from the waist up, skinny, two days stubble on his chin, no more than thirty five years old. A tiny spot of blood on the inside of his left forearm, a needle track.
Ryan took the Walther from its holster, held it at his side.
The man laughed, drool bubbling on his lip. “What’s that for?”
He had a Scottish accent, maybe Glasgow, it was too blunted by the morphine to be sure.
“Just in case,” Ryan said. “Are you Gracey or MacAullife?”
His brow creased. “What’s going on? Who … Where’s my …”
Ryan entered the room and sat down on the bed opposite the man. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy,” he said. “My mam wanted to call me James, but my old man said, naw, he’s Tommy. I’m thirsty.”
A half-full mug of water sat on the crate. Ryan lifted it, brought the rim to Tommy’s lips, let him drink until he coughed. He splattered water over his bare chest.
Ryan returned the cup to the crate. “What happened to your arm?”
Tommy looked down at the splint, the purple and yellow skin, the blood. His eyes widened as if he had not been aware of his injury.
“I fell,” he said.
“Where?”
“In the trees. I was running. I fell. It fucking hurts.”
“At Otto Skorzeny’s farm?”
Tommy grinned. “We’ll scare the shite out of him.”
Ryan returned his smile. “That’s right.”
“We’re going to be rich, boys.”
Ryan felt the smile crumble on his lips. “Yes, we are.”
He thought of the account number scrawled on the notepaper downstairs.
Tommy tried to sit up. “Did you send the letter?”
“Yes.”
“What’d he say?”
Ryan wondered if he should push the limits of Tommy’s delusions any further. “He hasn’t answered yet. What was in the letter?”
Tommy smiled, waved the forefinger of his left hand at Ryan. “Ah, you know.” He tapped the side of his nose with the same finger. “You know, boy.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“The gold.” Tommy scowled as if talking to a wilfully stupid child. “The fucking gold.”
“How much gold?”
“Fucking millions, boy. We’ll all be rich.”
Ryan stood, his mind churning. Outside, the roar of the stadium rolling through the street.
When the other three men returned, they would see the broken window, know their lair had been discovered. They would surely clear out. What few belongings they had would fit into their van. They would simply load it up and leave. Ryan guessed they could clear the house within five minutes, probably less.
And go where?
They would not abandon their mission and flee the country, Ryan was positive of that. Too much blood had been shed to quit now.
Think, think, think.
If Ryan had been running this mission, he’d have had a backup place, another house in another part of the city. He would get there as fast as he could.
A wave of nauseous fear washed over him. He was out of his depth. He should have told Weiss what he knew, allowed the Mossad agent to take over.
Ryan knew full well what the Isreali would have done if he were here. He would have executed the injured man, lain in wait for the others, and killed them when they returned. That would have been the end of it. Ryan could tell Skorzeny and Haughey the threat has disappeared.
All over, just like that.
Could Ryan do such a thing? He had killed men before. More than he could count. But that had been war. Could he kill men for their greed?
No, he could not.
Yes, he could.
Ryan grabbed the Walther’s slide assembly and chambered a round. He aimed at the centre of Tommy’s forehead.
Tommy stared up at him, his eyes suddenly clear.
“No,” he said, his voice dry and thin like paper.
Ryan put pressure on the trigger, felt its resistance.
“No. Please.”
Dizziness swept over Ryan’s forehead. He blinked it away. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Another rush of noise from the stadium.
“God, please, don’t.”
Ryan thought of Celia and the warmth of her body against his. “Christ,” he said.
He lowered the pistol, his hand shaking.
Tommy’s chest rose and fell, his gaze locked on Ryan’s. “Thank you,” he said.
Ryan went to reply, though he did not know what words he had for this man, but the sound of a key in a lock trapped the breath in his lungs.
The opening of a door below, its banging against a wall.
A harsh whisper, a demand for silence.
Ryan looked back down at Tommy, put his fingers to his lips, shush.
He moved towards the bedroom door, mindful of creaks from the bare floorboards. Stepping out onto the landing, he peered over the banister and listened. He could hear nothing but the noise of the crowds echoing down the street outside.
Then he saw a shadow move on the patch of floor visible inside the lounge.
Ryan stepped back into the bedroom.
Tommy called, “Here! He’s up here!”
Ryan closed the door, slid the small bolt across.
Quick footsteps on the stairs.
Ryan smashed the window pane with the butt of the pistol, swept the muzzle around the frame to clear the fragments, and holstered the Walther as he slipped one leg through.
The door rattled in its frame, once, twice.
Ryan forced his other leg through, let his body follow. He saw the door burst inward, Carter barrelling through, as he let go of the ledge and dropped to the ground.
The pavement slammed into him hard, jarring first his ankles, then his shoulder as he landed on his side. Ryan cried out, rolled onto his belly, clambered to his feet as he heard a key working the lock of the front door.
He ran.
Behind him, the door opened, and footsteps thudded on the road. Ryan ducked left and right, keeping his head low.
“There!” he heard. “Get him!”
The footsteps hammered the road surface. Ryan skidded right and dived towards the shadow under the railway bridge.
Up ahead, Holy Cross Avenue, and his car.
He pushed with his legs, harder than before, his arms churning. A glance over his shoulder — no sign of his pursuers.
The leafy greens of the avenue within reach, he ran.